


Mustache

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, to - Fandom
Genre: Beard Job, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo stimulates Balin’s beard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mustache

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Bilbo stroking/tugging on that snow white fluffy beard, causing Balin to blush and squirm, and most likely come in his trousers.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24758645#t24758645).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They go as long as they can before resting for food, simply because there hardly _is_ any food. They know from both Beorn and Gandalf’s warnings that they have to be careful, that new food won’t come easy, and in the mind-bending maze of the ever-dark forest, that’s proving all too true. But eventually, Bombur’s practically in tears over hunger and Fíli and Kíli are pestering them all to death. Bilbo hurries to the front of the party, telling Thorin that they _need_ to rest sometime, and after Balin’s quiet counsel, their fearless leaders agrees to make camp. 

They do so right on the middle of the path—what little of it they can find—so as not to get lost. They divide up tiny rations and settle down, branching out like a snowflake in uneven, concentric circles. Bilbo has the least to eat because he’s the smallest, but he’d still like the time to rest, and he choose Balin to come to, because Balin is complaining the least and also the one that’s always been kindest to Bilbo. They all accept him, in their own ways, but Balin is the one that’s always coming to his rescue and the most thoughtful dwarf—the one Bilbo identifies with most. 

Bilbo finds Balin the farthest away from the group, sitting down behind a great, thick tree that seems to go up forever. Bilbo’s kneeling in front of Balin’s folded lap before he sees just how sad Balin’s face looks, and that gives his heart a pang of hurt. Balin is the one he draws strength from, emotionally and intellectually, but right now it looks like Balin’s the one who needs support. He gives Bilbo a forced smile, but it doesn’t reach his bright eyes.

“It’s a strange place, to be sure,” Balin sighs, and he shakes his head, white hair drifting with the movement. “It’s like walking through a headache.”

“It is,” Bilbo agrees. Stranger, even. It wraps around them all, masking everything in illusion, the thin, faint rays of sunlight through the trees hardly enough to see each other by. Bilbo wants to say more, wants to make it better, but he doesn’t know how, so he only shuffles to sit next to Balin, the trunk blocking them both from all the other dwarves. Bilbo wonders absently if Thorin might let them stay for a while for a proper _rest_ , but he knows better than to ask.

Balin, after a moment’s quiet, reaches to lay a hand on Bilbo’s knee, like _Bilbo’s_ the one that needs reassurance. “Don’t worry,” he promises. “We’ll be out of here soon enough.” He shakes his head with a small chuckle, adding, “I’m just slowing us down because I’m too old for this sort of nonsense.”

“Balin,” Bilbo scolds, “Don’t be silly. You’re never too old for a little nonsense with friends.” He smiles for emphasis and reaches a hand over Balin’s, landing in the long, white expanse of Balin’s beard. He strokes it once, just gently, down from the end of Balin’s chin to the cleft across Balin’s chest, and Balin actually shivers. In that brief second, all the tension washes off his face, and Bilbo, surprised, doesn’t take his hand away. 

Instead, he does it again, running his fingertips lightly back up, getting the vague image of petting a dog to calm it. Balin does look calmer, and his eyes fall half closed, his mouth breathing, “ _Oh_.”

“We’ll be alright,” Bilbo murmurs soothingly, now sticking the tips of his fingers into the thick mat of hair—he can’t tell if the forest’s leaking into his perceptions again, or if Balin’s beard really is strikingly _soft_. The texture is a bit scratchy, yes, but the individual hairs are silky-smooth, well-brushed and corralled into thick, decadent waves that part easily around his flesh. Bilbo threads four small fingers into the middle and combs down, staring at the way it so gracefully parts for him, never snaring. His own hair’s a wreck, he’s sure, having gone so long without a proper bath or any time to really brush it, but Balin’s is perfectly maintained, perhaps a little more frayed around the edges than when they started, but still defined and clean and good to the touch. The more Bilbo strokes Balin’s beard, the more Balin’s face flushes, his eyes fluttering closed, then forcing open, hazily watching Bilbo’s busy hand. Halfway through, Bilbo locks a loose fist around the middle, giving just a testing, light tug, and Balin makes a hoarse gasping noise. 

He whispers, hushed and a little raspy, “ _Bilbo_...”

Bilbo purrs, “Shh,” because he’s getting somewhere, he’s doing it: he’s helping. He can see the pain oozing out of all Balin’s pores, leaving, in it’s wake, a strange contentment, a swell to his pupils and laxness to his face: rushing endorphins. Bilbo will have to remember this for the future, for other dwarves that get too wound up with all this stress. A little sweet, homely petting and they melt, like Balin does in Bilbo’s hands, slumping back against the tree while Bilbo alternates between soft strokes and little tugs. The tugs make Balin gasps, the strokes almost groan. Not quite like a dog, Bilbo thinks—a massage, perhaps? He’s always been a fan of massages himself, though of course, there hasn’t been any chance on this adventure—but perhaps they could arrange something, perhaps Balin would be willing to return the favour? Turning completely into Balin, so that his knee has to hook over Balin’s thigh for lack of anywhere else to go, Bilbo threads his other hand in the other side of Balin’s beard and works through it with all ten fingers. 

Balin fidgets again, and he makes a small pleading noise, then tries, “Bilbo, you shouldn’t—”

“I don’t mind,” Bilbo quietly insists. He really doesn’t. Balin’s done enough for him. And he can admit to a certain fascination with Balin’s beard, more than any others. It has such a nice, snowy hue, and the symmetrical little flicks into the air around the edges and ends elevate it almost to a work of art. Bilbo buries his hands in the fullness of it, marveling at the sheer volume, and then Balin _moans_ , and Bilbo’s eyes flicker up. He sees Balin’s flushed face, and suddenly, he _understands_.

But he’s bound to the wrist in Balin’s enticing beard. By now, it’s too late to stop. He’s already caressing the symbol of Balin’s dwarfood, and he’s also finding it oddly _pleasurable_ himself. It feels good to make Balin hot so easily, while just indulging in his own curiosity. So he keeps it up, locking one fist into the middle to pump gently up and down, the other petting down the sides, and Bilbo, before he can stop himself, leans up and in. 

He presses his lips over Balin’s. Maybe the forest really has gotten to him, or maybe there’s a reason they’ve singled each other out, or another reason Bilbo was drawn to this journey in the first place. Even in such an odd place, doing such bizarre acts, it feels oddly _right_ for Bilbo to share a chaste, soft kiss with this kind dwarf. 

When he pulls back, Balin’s eyes are closed, and he opens his mouth for a quiet gasping noise, his body bucking up suddenly. Bilbo’s hands still in surprise, and Balin, cheeks so red that Bilbo can feel their heat against his own, stiffens against the tree. 

When he slumps down, Bilbo knows what’s happened. With his knee still over Balin’s thighs, he can feel the slight dampness pervading Balin’s trousers, and he thinks he can smell it, too. Balin’s breathing hard and looks at Bilbo bashfully, so cute. 

Bilbo lifts to peck his nose: the easy way to say it’s alright.

Bilbo’s blushing, too, but he’s maybe not as embarrassed as he should be. He feels heady and strangely good and a little lost, which is understandable in a place like this. At least his mood’s an improvement. Nestled at Balin’s side, Bilbo withdraws his hands to his own lap and looks down at them, musing about what a remarkably clean way that was to show affection. For him, at least. Perhaps dwarves aren’t so counterproductive to his tidy preferences, after all.

Balin finally murmurs, “You are remarkable, Bilbo.”

Bilbo smiles, though he doesn’t feel he did anything special. Not intentionally, anyway. 

But Balin looks much better, and when Thorin gathers them to move again, Bilbo has a new sense of comfort and, even better, a new set of possibilities to muse upon for the rest of their bleak journey through the woods.


End file.
